Les Misérables
crack of the little, innocent lie. She did not. Little lie, innocent
lie—does such a thing exist? To lie is the absolute form of evil. To
lie a little is not possible: he who lies, lies the whole lie. To lie
is the very face of the demon. Satan has two names; he is called Satan
and Lying. That is what she thought; and as she thought, so she did.
The result was the whiteness which we have mentioned—a whiteness which
covered even her lips and her eyes with radiance. Her smile was white,
her glance was white. There was not a single spider’s web, not a grain
of dust, on the glass window of that conscience. On entering the order
of Saint Vincent de Paul, she had taken the name of Simplice by special
choice. Simplice of Sicily, as we know, is the saint who preferred to
allow both her breasts to be torn off rather than to say that she had
been born at Segesta when she had been born at Syracuse—a lie which
would have saved her. This patron saint suited this soul.
Sister Simplice, on her entrance into the order, had had two faults
which she had gradually corrected: she had a taste for dainties, and
she liked to receive letters. She never read anything but a book of
prayers printed in Latin, in coarse type. She did not understand Latin,
but she understood the book.
This pious woman had conceived an affection for Fantine, probably
feeling a latent virtue there, and she had devoted herself almost
exclusively to her care.
M. Madeleine took Sister Simplice apart and recommended Fantine to her
in a singular tone, which the sister recalled later on.
On leaving the sister, he approached Fantine.
Fantine awaited M. Madeleine’s appearance every day as one awaits a ray
of warmth and joy. She said to the sisters, “I only live when Monsieur
le Maire is here.”
She had a great deal of fever that day. As soon as she saw M. Madeleine
she asked him:—
“And Cosette?”
He replied with a smile:—
“Soon.”
M. Madeleine was the same as usual with Fantine. Only he remained an
hour instead of half an hour, to Fantine’s great delight. He urged
every one repeatedly not to allow the invalid to want for anything. It
was noticed that there was a moment when his countenance became very
sombre. But this was explained when it became known that the doctor had
bent down to his ear and said to him, “She is losing ground fast.”
Then he returned to the town-hall, and the clerk observed him
attentively examining a road map of France which hung in his study. He
wrote a few figures on a bit of paper with a pencil.
CHAPTER II—THE PERSPICACITY OF MASTER SCAUFFLAIRE
From the town-hall he betook himself to the extremity of the town, to a
Fleming named Master Scaufflaer, French Scaufflaire, who let out
“horses and cabriolets as desired.”
In order to reach this Scaufflaire, the shortest way was to take the
little-frequented street in which was situated the parsonage of the
parish in which M. Madeleine resided. The curé was, it was said, a
worthy, respectable, and sensible man. At the moment when M. Madeleine
arrived in front of the parsonage there was but one passer-by in the
street, and this person noticed this: After the mayor had passed the
priest’s house he halted, stood motionless, then turned about, and
retraced his steps to the door of the parsonage, which had an iron
knocker. He laid his hand quickly on the knocker and lifted it; then he
paused again and stopped short, as though in thought, and after the
lapse of a few seconds, instead of allowing the knocker to fall
abruptly, he placed it gently, and resumed his way with a sort of haste
which had not been apparent previously.
M. Madeleine found Master Scaufflaire at home, engaged in stitching a
harness over.
“Master Scaufflaire,” he inquired, “have you a good horse?”
“Mr. Mayor,” said the Fleming, “all my horses are good. What do you
mean by a good horse?”
“I mean a horse which can travel twenty leagues in a day.”
“The deuce!” said the Fleming. “Twenty leagues!”
“Yes.”
“Hitched to a cabriolet?”
“Yes.”
“And how long can he rest at the end of his journey?”
“He must be able to set out again on the next day if necessary.”
“To traverse the same road?”
“Yes.”
“The deuce! the deuce! And it is twenty leagues?”
M. Madeleine drew from his pocket the paper on which he had pencilled
some figures. He showed it to the Fleming. The figures were 5, 6, 8½.
“You see,” he said, “total, nineteen and a half; as well say twenty
leagues.”
“Mr. Mayor,” returned the Fleming, “I have just what you want. My
little white horse—you may have seen him pass occasionally; he is a
small beast from Lower Boulonnais. He is full of fire. They wanted to
make a saddle-horse of him at first. Bah! He reared, he kicked, he laid
everybody flat on the ground. He was thought to be vicious, and no one
knew what to do with him. I bought him. I harnessed him to a carriage.
That is what he wanted, sir; he is as gentle as a girl; he goes like
the wind. Ah! indeed he must not be mounted. It does not suit his ideas
to be a saddle-horse. Every one has his ambition. ‘Draw? Yes. Carry?
No.’ We must suppose that is what he said to himself.”
“And he will accomplish the trip?”
“Your twenty leagues all at a full trot, and in less than eight hours.
But here are the conditions.”
“State them.”
“In the first place, you will give him half an hour’s breathing spell
midway of the road; he will eat; and some one must be by while he is
eating to prevent the stable boy of the inn from stealing his oats; for
I have noticed that in inns the oats are more often drunk by the stable
men than eaten by the horses.”
“Some one will be by.”
“In the second place—is the cabriolet for Monsieur le Maire?”
“Yes.”
“Does Monsieur le Maire know how to drive?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Monsieur le Maire will travel alone and without baggage, in
order not to overload the horse?”
“Agreed.”
“But as Monsieur le Maire will have no one with him, he will be obliged
to take the trouble himself of seeing that the oats are not stolen.”
“That is understood.”
“I am to have thirty francs a day. The days of rest to be paid for
also—not a farthing less; and the beast’s food to be at Monsieur le
Maire’s expense.”
M. Madeleine drew three napoleons from his purse and laid them on the
table.
“Here is the pay for two days in advance.”
“Fourthly, for such a journey a cabriolet would be too heavy, and would
fatigue the horse. Monsieur le Maire must consent to travel in a little
tilbury that I own.”
“I consent to that.”
“It is light, but it has no cover.”
“That makes no difference to me.”
“Has Monsieur le Maire reflected that we are in the middle of winter?”
M. Madeleine did not reply. The Fleming resumed:—
“That it is very cold?”
M. Madeleine preserved silence.
Master Scaufflaire continued:—
“That it may rain?”
M. Madeleine raised his head and said:—
“The tilbury and the horse will be in front of my door to-morrow
morning at half-past four o’clock.”
“Of course, Monsieur le Maire,” replied Scaufflaire; then, scratching a
speck in the wood of the table with his thumb-nail, he resumed with
that careless air which the Flemings understand so well how to mingle
with their shrewdness:—
“But this is what I am thinking of now: Monsieur le Maire has not told
me where he is going. Where is Monsieur le Maire going?”
He had been thinking of nothing else since the beginning of the
conversation, but he did not know why he had not dared to put the
question.
“Are your horse’s forelegs good?” said M. Madeleine.
“Yes, Monsieur le Maire. You must hold him in a little when going down
hill. Are there many descends between here and the place whither you
are going?”
“Do not forget to be at my door at precisely half-past four o’clock
to-morrow morning,” replied M. Madeleine; and he took his departure.
The Fleming remained “utterly stupid,” as he himself said some time
afterwards.
The mayor had been gone two or three minutes when the door opened
again; it was the mayor once more.
He still wore the same impassive and preoccupied air.
“Monsieur Scaufflaire,” said he, “at what sum do you estimate the value
of the horse and tilbury which you are to let to me,—the one bearing
the other?”
“The one dragging the other, Monsieur le Maire,” said the Fleming, with
a broad smile.
“So be it. Well?”
“Does Monsieur le Maire wish to purchase them or me?”
“No; but I wish to guarantee you in any case. You shall give me back
the sum at my return. At what value do you estimate your horse and
cabriolet?”
“Five hundred francs, Monsieur le Maire.”
“Here it is.”
M. Madeleine laid a bank-bill on the table, then left the room; and
this time he did not return.
Master Scaufflaire experienced a frightful regret that he had not said
a thousand francs. Besides the horse and tilbury together were worth
but a hundred crowns.
The Fleming called his wife, and related the affair to her. “Where the
devil could Monsieur le Maire be going?” They held counsel together.
“He is going to Paris,” said the wife. “I don’t believe it,” said the
husband.
M. Madeleine had forgotten the paper with the figures on it, and it lay
on the chimney-piece. The Fleming picked it up and studied it. “Five,
six, eight and a half? That must designate the posting relays.” He
turned to his wife:—
“I have found out.”
“What?”
“It is five leagues from here to Hesdin, six from Hesdin to Saint-Pol,
eight and a half from Saint-Pol to Arras. He is going to Arras.”
Meanwhile, M. Madeleine had returned home. He had taken the longest way
to return from Master Scaufflaire’s, as though the parsonage door had
been a temptation for him, and he had wished to avoid it. He ascended
to his room, and there he shut himself up, which was a very simple act,
since he liked to go to bed early. Nevertheless, the portress of the
factory, who was, at the same time, M. Madeleine’s only servant,
noticed that the latter’s light was extinguished at half-past eight,
and she mentioned it to the cashier when he came home, adding:—
“Is Monsieur le Maire ill? I thought he had a rather singular air.”
This cashier occupied a room situated directly under M. Madeleine’s
chamber. He paid no heed to the portress’s words, but went to bed and
to sleep. Towards midnight he woke up with a start; in his sleep he had
heard a noise above his head. He listened; it was a footstep pacing
back and forth, as though some one were walking in the room above him.
He listened more attentively, and recognized M. Madeleine’s step. This
struck him as strange; usually, there was no noise in M. Madeleine’s
chamber until he rose in the morning. A moment later the cashier heard
a noise which resembled that of a cupboard being opened, and then shut
again; then a piece of furniture was disarranged; then a pause ensued;
then the step began again. The cashier sat up in bed, quite awake now,
and staring; and through his window-panes he saw the reddish gleam of a
lighted window reflected on the opposite wall; from the direction of
the rays, it could only come from the window of M. Madeleine’s chamber.
The reflection wavered, as though it came rather from a fire which had
been lighted than from a candle. The shadow of the window-frame was not
shown, which indicated that the window was wide open. The fact that
this window was open in such cold weather was surprising. The cashier
fell asleep again. An hour or two later he waked again. The same step
was still passing slowly and regularly back and forth overhead.
The reflection was still visible on the wall, but now it was pale and
peaceful, like the reflection of a lamp or of a candle. The window was
still open.